


Knights In Shining Armour (Ever After Lovers)

by ConsentFest, Thirdeyeblinkings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Getting Together, HP Consent Fest 2019, Sexual Content, Veela Mates, Veela lore, arsehole roger davies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-10-25 00:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17714486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsentFest/pseuds/ConsentFest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thirdeyeblinkings/pseuds/Thirdeyeblinkings
Summary: Fleur has been objectified for most of her life, her bodily autonomy often dismissed. Being part Veela only makes matters worse.Written for prompt 23: Fleur Delacour has beautiful hair with a rare tint. People often touch it without her permission, especially men bent on seduction.





	Knights In Shining Armour (Ever After Lovers)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TDCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TDCat/gifts).



> This is not a usual pairing for me, and my first het ship story ever, but TDcat, your prompt grabbed me and wouldn't let go.
> 
> I played around with a lot of different ideas and pairings when I was trying to get a handle on the prompt, but I kept coming back to endgame Bill and Fleur. 
> 
> So, it turned out to be part Fleur character study, part Bill/Fleur back story, and I hope it does the prompt justice.
> 
> Thanks so much to the Consent Fest mods for being so friendly, helpful and all around great.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my beta @lettersbyelise, who cleaned up my sloppy French and made some very helpful plot and characterisation suggestions. You're the best!
> 
> Additional notes:
> 
> I did not write Fleur's accent. Not that I take an issue with her having one, but phonetic spelling always throws me right out of a story and I've heard others say it's distracting. It was easier for me to establish her voice without it. 
> 
> There is a small bit of French (in italics), mostly just conversational bits. I hope it can be deciphered in context for the average reader, but I am open to comments on this.
> 
> More notes on the consent themes I wanted to explore at the end of the fic! Thanks for reading!

_Fleur_

I am ten the first time I feel a man’s gaze slide off my mother and onto me. I’ve just been fitted for my Beauxbatons robes at La Belle Sorcière. The first year skirt flounces when I walk, and the jacket fits just so. The icy blue picks up the silver strands of my perfectly plaited hair. I adore it, everything.

For a few minutes.

The man at the register takes my mother’s money, then stares down at me approvingly.

“The fit . . .” he trails off, eyes running up and down my frame, _“c’est parfait.”_

It makes something inside of me curl up. Maman does not notice, or if she does, she pretends otherwise. In fact, she pushes it further.

“Fleur,” she admonishes, _“Que dis-tu?”_ She waits expectantly. This man paid me a compliment. It is my job to smile and say thank you.

 _“Merci,”_ I mumble, my face aflame, willing myself to become smaller, to be invisible.

I do not have the words to explain why this compliment didn’t feel like one. If Papa had said the exact same words, I would have glowed under his praise, perhaps even thrown my arms around him and kissed his cheek. But he wouldn’t have said it like _that_.  

This man said it in a way that was simultaneously brazen and secretive. Like there were other things he wanted to say, but this was enough, because we both knew what he meant.

Only I do not know what he meant, just that it makes me feel weak and ashamed.

When he sees how my cheeks are burning, he laughs. I freeze in horror as he reaches his hand out to the back of my head and caresses my hair, all the way down my back. I still shudder thinking about it to this day.

It can’t have lasted more than three seconds, but it might as well have been hours. If I could move, I would recoil, but my nerves are strung too tight.

 _“Tellement timide,”_ he pouts with a patronizing smile, then looks to my mother to share the joke.

Maman smiles and tuts, _“Oui._ Too shy. A proper education will help, _j'espère.”_

My eyes widen at the betrayal while the rest of me stays rigid. I blink back hot tears.

The man nods sagely, casting my mother a knowing glance. _“Bien sûr.”_ Then he looks once more at me and winks. _“Bonne journée, mademoiselle.”_

I nod stiffly, and follow my mother onto the street. We continue from shop to shop, buying the rest of my supplies, as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. And I suppose, in reality, nothing has.  


**_________**  


 

“They can’t help it, _chérie,”_ Maman says countless times over the years I am growing up, excusing everything from stares to unsolicited comments to fleeting gropes and caresses.

Because we are Veela. Because we are beautiful. Because we are women.

Sometimes she beams with power and pride when she says it, but other times she does not sound so sure. I wonder if she has ever felt the way I do. That no matter what we are and how beautiful we look, it’s all bullshit (pardon my French)

Most of the Veela legends are utter nonsense, by the way. The poor, hapless men falling victim to Veela charms have always known what they were getting into. Veela are often conquests, the way all women are. The stakes are higher and the rewards greater, but the game is exactly the same. Do you know what kind of status a man is instantly granted the moment he has a woman of Veela heritage on his arm? Papa loves Maman, and she him. They are true mates, but if the whispered stories I hear are even half true, that is the exception rather than the rule.

I’m certain they _can_ help it, these men. It’s an ugly lie that they forget themselves when faced with the seductive traits possessed by those of Veela blood. It’s the reason so many Veela have had to use their gifts defensively, instead of the way they are meant to be used.

We do have gifts that ordinary wizards do not possess, but they are not the ones most people think of when they think of Veelas.

We are not cruel sirens who torment men and steal them away from their plain wives, as if _that_ is the greatest pleasure the world has to offer.  

Consider the myth of Lysandre, a humble potion merchant who was tricked by a love-scorned Veela. She lured him off a cliff, making a widow of his wife and starving his children, all because he dared to reject her charms. Heinous, no?

Only, the fairytale glosses over the fact that she was sixteen, that he had trapped her by pretending to be injured, chased her down in the forest, dragged her by her hair, raped her, and had every intention of selling her to a brothel when he was finished.

People never tell that part of the story. Or if they do, no one believes it. “Veela are too powerful to be caught by a simple wizard,” they say. “Why didn’t she bewitch him to get him to release her peacefully?” Or even, “Veela can’t have it both ways. They can’t seduce men one moment and fear them the next. It doesn’t make sense.” Or the last ditch effort to dismiss: “It’s just a story. Don’t make such a fuss over it.”

Such a _fuss_ . As if lesser things aren’t _fussed_ over constantly, every day.

Grandmere tells me the true story of Lysandre when I am twelve and she thinks I have fallen asleep. She kisses my cheek and whispers brokenly into my ear, _“Sois forte, ma fille.”_

Stay strong, my girl.

  


**_________**

  


When the day comes for Gabrielle to be fitted for new robes, I volunteer to take her myself. She swishes out of the dressing room wearing a smile I am intimately familiar with, a shy appreciation of the good parts of growing into yourself.

The clerk, a different man from the other time, but not so different, reaches out to straighten her hem, and I see his hand hover over her thigh for a split second longer than it needs to.

 _“Monsieur,”_ I say sharply.

He meets my gaze, feigning a confused expression, but I see the challenge there. And I never want Gabrielle to know what it means.

“Perhaps . . .” My hands tremble as I lift them behind my head, knowing exactly how the motion draws attention to my form. “Perhaps you could help me find a new hat for autumn?” I pull the ribbon from my braid and slide my fingers through the strands. They are floating all around me now. He can’t look away.

 _“Bien sûr, cher demoiselle,”_ he breathes, Gabrielle forgotten.

“Get dressed,” I snap to her over my shoulder. “We have more shops to get to.” Gabrielle glides back behind the dressing room door, smile still intact. I know I won’t be able to protect her forever, but I will as long as I can, no matter how it turns my stomach.

_Sois forte, reste forte._

Be strong. Stay strong.  


**_________**

 

And I am strong, though convention insists I don’t advertise it. Proving it is an obsession of mine. When Madame Maxime announces the tournament, my mind is made up before she is finished speaking.

Maman is of two minds, however, when I tell her. She is a proud woman, and the honour of being a champion has allure, even for her. The honour, the glory, the prestige—all wonderful, to be sure. But are they fitting of a Delacour woman?

“They _are,”_ I insist. “I am a Delacour, and I decide what befits me.” I don’t say “I am a Delacour _woman,”_ as she says. The word makes me uncomfortable; I avoid using it whenever possible.

Maman scrutinizes me and fingers the braid hanging loose over my shoulder. “I wish you would stop wearing your hair like a little girl,” she muses, unwilling to acknowledge how I have just asserted myself. Changing the subject to how I wear my fucking hair.

“I wear it that way because I like it that way,” I respond evenly. And because it attracts less unwanted attention, or at least I hope it does. Not that it has done me much good lately. Since I began to “bloom,” as she put it, there is no reprieve. No matter what I wear or where I go, I am always on display. I see men walk into traffic staring at me, and I loathe it. I fear it will never stop.

 

  **_________**  


 

Leaving Gabrielle is the only thing that gives me pause. I try not to think about it. I want to compete, to dominate. More than anything, I want to escape what I am. But Gabrielle is still so young, and we adore each other.

I make her promise to stay close to home, to write me as much as humanly possible, and to practice being strong when anyone assumes she exists solely for their benefit. I don’t know how much she understands. I hope she won’t need to.

Arriving at Hogwarts is much as I expected. Heads turn in my direction wherever I go: death stares from the girls, wide-eyed want from the boys, with a few exceptions. The Potter boy, much smaller and more awkward than the papers have led me to believe, is polite at least. Cedric, too, is respectful, though I catch him looking once or twice. Krum only sneers, as if to say he will not be bested by a prim little French girl, whatever her heritage might be.

At the weighing of the wands, we eye each other warily. At least among the champions I am human; I am a threat. It’s intoxicating.

After the first task, I am alive with the challenge of it, giddy almost. I have faced a dragon and survived. What else will the world hold for me? So I allow myself some time to celebrate, and I let down my guard.

When Roger Davies invites me as his date to the Yule Ball, I accept gladly. I know he wouldn’t make a “suitable mate,” as Maman would say. I am not looking for a mate. Not now, perhaps not ever. He wants me for less noble reasons. Of course I know. But this time, at least, I want him, too. Or, I like being wanted by him. It is different from being ogled by every man in my wake. This has an electric energy I want to chase, to see where it goes. And I like the way his hair flops in front his eyes, and the way he tries to speak muddled French.

When we kiss, he takes me by the hand, away from the music and the lights. His mouth is hot and wet on my neck. My body responds and I arch into him without thinking. I don’t pull away when I feel his prick harden against my thigh. I push against it. I am willing to do more, to go further.

“Take out your hair,” he breathes into my ear and trails a hand up the back of my neck. I freeze. The silvery strands are piled and swirled into a high bun that took my friend, Lisanne, hours to perfect. It is held in place by an ornate silver pin from my Grandmere

I shake my head slightly and pull back to face him. I don’t want to seem unreasonable. I can’t say why I don’t want to. “No.” Perhaps I even smile a little, as if to say, “I know it’s silly. I’m sorry, but no.”    

“Please,” he whimpers against my cheek. _“S’il vous plaît?”_

 _“Non,”_ I squeak, hating the shrill tone of my own voice, the power of the word I feel I have no business saying, hoping I won’t have to say it again.  

“Why not? It’s just hair,” he huffs, pulling away, unable or unwilling to see that it means more than that to me. “Come on, let’s see it,” and before I can stop him, he whisks his fingers up to my Grandmere’s pin and yanks it out.

I gasp and strike his face. It’s a reflex I didn’t know I had.

He stares at me in shock for a moment before hatred and rage claim his features. He stands up and throws the pin down with such force that it tears the tulle on my gown.

“Veela bitch,” he spits and stalks away.

I sit in the dark for hours going over what happened, berating myself for every decision I made leading up to that moment.  


**_________**

  


After that, I am not myself. I do not notice when three days pass and Gabrielle has not written. I do not think to ask why, and it will haunt me later. I have no interest in the second task and find out about it quite by accident, after dropping that ugly egg into the sink while I wash my face. I am always washing my face; it is a compulsion of mine after the ball. The Hogwarts girls probably think it some ridiculous French obsession with skincare. Fuck them.  

It is not doing my skin any favours. No—quite the opposite. My complexion is raw and ruddy, sensitive to the touch, but I cannot stop. I wash my face, rebraid my hair as tight as I can, and do it all over again as soon as I have the chance. No one asks why.

I will never forget the airless punch to the gut it is to see Gabrielle unconscious in the lake. I did not prepare properly for this task. I did not care if I won or if I drowned. Part of me had hoped I would drown, or be injured enough to quit. _We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss_ , the egg had sung. But I never considered, never would have dreamed it would be _her._ Or would I? If I had been properly focused? I do not know.

I heard a Gryffindor girl whisper she had expected to see my hairbrush at the bottom of the lake. Little cunt.  

They say I should have known Gabrielle was not in any real danger. They know nothing. That fucking egg song was clear as a bell in my head, including the part that said _past an hour, the prospect’s black. Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back._ What was I supposed to think?

When the Potter boy returns with his friend and my sister, clearly under the same impression I was, I know that if there is truly a Chosen One, it must be him, this scraping slip of a boy. Harry Potter. And if there is truly going to be a war, I want to fight.

But I am getting ahead of myself. First we must face the third task.

The relief of Gabrielle being unharmed has washed away some of what I have carried after the ball. But the fact that she was taken and used as bait shook my core. Where is the honour in that? Where is the outrage? The inquiry?

I plan to finish first in the final task. Harry is the favourite by now, understandably. But he does not need it the way I do. I am determined not to fail.

 

**_________**

 

_Bill_

I hear about her before I see her. When I come home to the Burrow for Christmas, Mum, Dad and Charlie are discussing the tournament, reading the prophet, cursing Rita Skeeter and wringing their hands over what might be next.

“I still don’t understand how they let him compete!” Mum wails. “There has to be something Dumbledore can do.”

“Well, that’s just it, love,” Dad says softly. “If Dumbledore can’t do something, it’s got to be stronger magic than we realise. We know he has Harry’s best interest at heart.” It surprises me to hear Dad say that.    

Wait—I’ll back up.

 

**_________**

 

I was ten when we thought Voldemort was killed the first time. We were living in hiding, moving around a lot, which is tricky to do when there are six kids and another on the way. Mum was constantly pale, hunched and exhausted, Dad not much better. I was always afraid, but I couldn’t let on.

I didn’t know Harry or his parents. Communing in large groups was not wise in those days, so I hardly saw any kids except my own siblings. But on that day, when we heard what happened, I met a lot of people at once. No more secret comings and goings. Shouts of ecstasy one moment, sobs the next. It was a wonderful thing, but a terrible thing. A baby had defeated You-Know-Who. It sounded like a ridiculous nursery rhyme, the Muggle kind that Dad sometimes read so we could laugh at how wrong the magic was.

But one thing stuck with me, and that was how they talked about Dumbledore. There was a muted reproach in the way they said his name. Not disrespectful, exactly, but questioning. He had failed to protect the Potters. Everyone had, really, but Dumbledore should have known better.  And now he was placing the baby in the home of Muggle relatives who hated wizards. I can remember looking down at Ron, sweat-sticky hair and cheeks glowing pink in front of the fire, stirring in his sleep with his head on Mum’s shoulder. How could they do that to a baby like Ron?

“That can’t be right,” I’d said aloud. No one agreed with me, but no one argued either. The silence was deafening.

I grew up a little confused, sort of paranoid about which adults I could trust, and never truly comfortable with being the eldest son of a pureblood family. I had nightmares for years, right up until I moved out of the Burrow. I hadn’t lived through much trauma, all told, but it was enough.

 

**_________**

  


So you can see how it might jolt me a bit to hear Dad talk about Dumbledore in such certain terms. Are we are on the cusp of another war? The idea sends my stomach to my toes. War means sacrifice, fear, making black and white out of so much grey.

Dumbledore would be on our side, and he has power, so does that mean he is above reproach?  

Mum only nods. “Well, I suppose if they let that wisp of a girl compete, anything’s possible,” she sighs. “I hate this tournament.”

My ears perk up at that as well. Mum is usually more charitable towards bold young women. “What wisp of a girl? The rest of the champions are of age, aren’t they?”

“Well, yes,” Mum concedes. “But...look at her.” She thrusts the paper in my face. The photo must have been taken before the first task. Poor Harry does look small among the other three. But Fleur looks like she belongs, head held high, meeting the photographer’s gaze dead on.

“What about her?”

“I mean, she’s so . . . I can’t help but wonder . . .” she flails about for the right words.

“Because she’s pretty?” I offer. “You don’t think she should compete because she’s pretty?” I quirk an eyebrow.

“Of course that’s not it!” Mum flushes and mutters something under her breath about distractions. Dad picks up a Quidditch magazine and flips through it much too quickly.

“Oi, Mum!” Charlie jumps up and yanks the paper from my hands. “If it’s distractions you’re worried about, I can tell you, Diggory is equally pretty.” He tosses her a wide grin and a wink.

“Well of course _you_ would—”

“I would what, Mum?” He asks innocently. “Got eyes, haven’t I?”

Ah, Charlie. Let me count the ways he’s broken our dear mother’s heart: Living in Romania, working with dragons, and fancying blokes.

It’s been good for her, though. Life lessons, growth, and all of that. Except that all of her hopes for imminent grandbabies have now transferred solely onto me. I haven’t the heart (or balls) to tell her that I’ve yet to meet anyone I want to fuck more than once, let alone share my life with. And children terrify me.

I’m perfectly content with my work and my friends and the goblins who grudgingly appreciate my expertise.

Mostly content, anyway. Content enough.

Mum throws her hands in the air. “Nevermind. Who wants a cuppa?”

We all answer in the affirmative. Dad offers to help and follows her to the kitchen.

Charlie chuckles and slaps me on the back. “Good to have you here, mate. What with everyone else still at Hogwarts, I’ve had to take on all the responsibility of teasing Mum. It’s wearing on me, quite frankly.”

I smile and shift my weight. “You don’t always have to tease her to get your point across. Sometimes you just need to tell her what you think.”

He considers that for a moment. “Actually, we should probably give ‘er a break, anyway. It’s been a tough year.”

“I know,” I sigh. She’s probably doing her best to cope with everything. “Still, it doesn’t give her an excuse to disparage a girl for nothing. She’s above that.”

Charlie nods and chews his nails. “It might not be _nothing,”_ he says, flicking his eyes back to the photo and lowering his voice.

“Oh?”

“They’re saying she’s part Veela. And maybe that’s an unfair advantage.”

Part Veela. I feel a stab of pity for her. That’s some rumour to carry, considering all the bullshit stories I’ve heard about Veelas.

“Come on, Charlie,” I roll my eyes. “You were there at the first task. She didn’t flirt her way past the dragon, I assume.”

“That’s a good point, actually. She charmed the Welsh Green to sleep. It only worked about half way but it’s an incredibly difficult spell, and it didn’t harm Liam at all, which I can appreciate.”

 _“Liam._ Oh, god, of course you named it,” I groan, shaking my head.

“Yes, of course I did!”

“You’re worse than Hagrid.”

“Anyway, knowing what I do about dragons, I’d say I’d rather face one of them than a Veela at full strength.”

“ _Alleged_ Veela,” I correct

Charlie shrugs.

All of this just to say, Fleur Delacour is not unknown to me. And I would be lying if I said I I’m not the least bit interested in learning more.

 

**_________**

  


_Fleur_

Maman always says that if I am fortunate enough to meet my mate, I will know immediately. But I’ve always written it off as her being dramatic and sentimental, so I don’t ask how I would know. I have no illusions of lightning striking. And on the day of the final task, nothing is further from my mind.

I huddle close to my parents and Gabrielle, trying to wave off their fussing, even though I enjoy it after being apart for so long. I scan the people milling about, even as I know they are watching me, sussing me out. There is Harry, a thatch of black, messy hair in the midst of a disordered clump of orange and freckles. He is so out of place, but he seems grateful for the attention

Then a curious thing happens. My eyes are drawn to a particular pale and freckled person beside him.

He is smiling, not at me of course, but I cannot stop staring. It’s as if I am standing right in front of him instead of fifty metres away. I can see every strand of the auburn hair that has escaped from where he has tied it back, every freckle across his cheeks, the silver rings climbing up the shell of his ear and what looks to be a bronze fang dangling from his earlobe. Even as I notice these things, I am aware I should not be noticing them. Not here, not now. I am dizzy for no reason at all, and annoyed, but still I cannot tear my gaze away. A wave of something strong and urgent rushes through me, unfamiliar but not unwelcome, different from any want or shadow of lust I may have experienced.

A still, small voice in my soul whispers,

 _Mine_.

And I am terrified.

I shake my head. No. Of all the foolish things to be thinking of at this moment.

_Mine._

_“Tais-toi!”_ I say aloud, startling Gabrielle, who is watching me closely. _“Desolée,”_ I murmur sheepishly, and hug her close. “Just nerves. My head will not be quiet.”

She grins up at me. _“Bonne chance, Fleur. Sois forte,”_ she whispers.

I hug her tighter.

When I look up again, the man has vanished into the crowd, a loss I feel keenly, whether I will admit it or not.  No matter. My focus is required elsewhere. I am here to win a tournament, not a husband.

The final task is about to begin.

 

**_________**

  


Any thought of mates or romance has dissolved hours later, along with the notion of winning anything other than a war some people still insist is not coming.

Cedric is dead, Merlin save us all. Harry Potter is insane, or worse—absolutely in his right mind. There is true evil, very close by. But Veelas have always known that this is so.

We Delacours move as one across the field, clutching one another in shock mingled with fear and relief. Papa announces that we will leave for home immediately, just as soon as a mediwitch can look me over. Something clenches inside me at the idea of leaving, but I hold my tongue for the moment.  My vision is blurry and all of my limbs ache. I lean heavily into my father until he sweeps me up in his arms without a word. I almost fall asleep with my next breath, except for the shock of auburn hair I see out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head to see the man from before, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, lips parted, wide hazel eyes meeting mine.

 _Mine._  


**_________**  
  


_Bill_

In the days following the tournament, Mum’s nerves are on a knife’s edge. Dad is quiet, Charlie uncharacteristically sombre. Percy continues to act the all around dickish prig. Fred and George go right along with their stupid pranks, much to everyone’s relief. Ron and Ginny keep to themselves, or perhaps, because of the difference in our ages, I don’t notice what they’re doing. It happens in big families.

And I, well. I am . . . unsettled.

There’s plenty to be unsettled about, mind you. It’s just that I am unsettled about a very particular thing, rather than the insanity unfolding within wizarding Britain.

I’m unsettled about _her._

Listen, I have high standards for others as well as myself. So if I’m uncomfortable with other people leering at a seventeen-year-old (alleged) Veela girl competing in a school tournament, you’d better believe I’m uncomfortable at the idea of having done so myself.

But. Was that what I did? Did I leer or just . . . notice? I replay everything I can remember about that day over and over in my head.

 

 **_________**  
  


I only came to the tournament in the first place to cheer Harry on and keep Mum steady, and alright, because I expected it to be exciting.

I saw her there as the task was about to begin, standing next to Harry, examining her bootlaces, flexing her wand and tightening the braid across her back. I could practically see the adrenaline pumping through her veins. There was a ferocity to her that thrilled me, a little too much if I’m honest. I felt something stir . . . something that should not be stirring, if you catch my drift.  

But it wasn’t just, you know, _that_. It was like an invisible hook in my ribcage kept tugging me forward. It was uncomfortable. I wrenched my gaze over to see Harry squinting in my direction. I waved and smiled and refused to look anywhere else in that direction until the task commenced. The sensation lessened, but didn’t go away.  

Then when the task began, it morphed into something resembling panic. I held my breath without realising it and watched my fists clench and my knuckles turn white.

“It’s all right, dear,” Mum clasped my elbow, trying to reassure herself as much as me. “It’s got to turn out alright.”

I nodded. But I’d never felt worse.

What the fuck was going on?

I remained in a state of quiet, bewildering terror until everything went to hell and Harry came back with Cedric’s body. And surely, that should have been my primary concern. The whole, Harry Potter bringing back a dead student and announcing the return of the Dark Lord thing. And yet, it wasn’t.

It was her. I was starting to wonder if there was really something to all things I’d heard about Veelas, only no one else seemed affected the way I was.

It was only when I spotted her limping across the grass with her family that my pulse calmed the fuck down and my breathing slowed. She was okay. Not great, but alive.

I watched her father scoop her up and her head fall onto his shoulder, wisps of silvery blonde slipping from her braid, forming a halo around her temples.

She turned to look at me. Directly at me. The next part is so terribly cliché I cringe to say it, but that doesn’t make it any less true. When our eyes locked, it was like lightning.

Instead of being struck down, I was alive for the first time.  


**_________**

 

_Fleur_

_“Non._ I am not going home.”

“Ssh, shh, you are not thinking clearly.” Maman presses her lips to my forehead and places her hands on my shoulders. Papa and Gabrielle are shopping in Hogsmeade while Mother packs our things at the inn. “You did very well. We are so proud. But now we must get back to—”

 _“Non,_ Maman,” I say steadily.

 _“Oui,”_ she replies with a stern glare and careless wave of her hand, as if I am a child who is being told to come in after playing long enough. _“Maintenant.”_

“Maman,” I begin, unsure of how to say it. “I think I saw him. My . . . my mate.”

It has the effect I suspected. Maman’s eyes light up. She claps her hands. _“Vraiment?”_ she coos. _“Où?”_

“At the tournament. In the crowd.” I feel foolish saying it. Like the heroine in a soppy love-at-first-sight Muggle film.

Maman raises her eyebrows. She presses on, less excited, more skeptical. Hey eyes narrow ever so slightly. “And what makes you think it was him? What happened?”

“I . . . saw him. From far away, but it felt closer.” Ridiculous. What am I even saying?

Maman nods, waiting for me to continue.

“And then . . . he saw me. And we looked at each other, and . . .” I fumble for the right words, if they exist. I find that they do not. “Please, Maman,” I beg, to my own horror.  “Let me stay, just for summer. I could get a job. Improve my English?”

Now she knows something is amiss. My English is near perfect. The accent is strong, but only when I’m nervous or caught off guard. I am essentially bilingual, which is more than I need to be for where we live and the society we keep.

But something in her relents. I was more convincing than I thought, or she knows something I do not.

 _“D’accord,”_ she sighs, as if her hands are tied. She reaches for a quill and starts writing a letter to Dumbledore, of all people. I would protest, but I am not in a position to make demands.

 

**_________**

 

_Bill_

I’m back to work the following Monday, checking in at the bank before wading into any new cases. The unsettled feeling lingers on, but I push it down by telling myself that the Delacours have made their way back to France by now. After thinking about her, dreaming about her, and allowing myself a just-this-once wank over her (never came so hard in my life but that’s beside the point), I’ve decided to chalk the whole thing up to temporary insanity. Thank Merlin everyone else was too caught up in their own chaos to notice I wasn’t quite myself.

Griphook is wearing his “I can’t believe I have to deal with more wizard ministry bullshit” expression when he calls me into his office this morning. I’m not sure what to expect, but we’re usually in agreement on what constitutes wizard ministry bullshit, so I’m not looking forward to whatever he’s going to tell me.

“We’re hiring a summer student,” he growls after swinging the door shut.

“A what?” I sputter. Gringotts isn’t exactly set up for a summer internship. It was years of schooling and training before I could move beyond even the most basic curse breaking tasks. What idiot bought their way into this one? Some pure-blood hot shot, no doubt. I groan internally. This will fuck so many things up. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Who is it?”

“Foreign family,” Griphook barks. “Looking to pick up more of your language.”

Oh, this is too much. “Are you _serious_?”

Griphook doesn’t flinch. He’s never not serious. Great. Perfect. I admire anyone looking to enhance their understanding of another culture or language. I do. But here? Where one small misunderstanding could quite literally cost you an arm and a leg? Or your memory, or your face. I’ve had too many close calls to count.

I can just picture it. Probably some Durmstrang swot looking for a distinction on his CV. A Bulgarian Percy. Ugh.

“No. We can’t do that. Just tell them no.”

Griphook smirks. “There is no _we._ The student will be your underling. We goblins aren’t nursemaids—”

“And _I_ am?”

“And the orders come from the top.”

“From the ministry?”

“From Dumbledore.”

 

Fuck. I hate that old man.

 

**_________**

  


10:15 a.m. Whoever they are, they’re fifteen minutes late already. Of course. My skin crawls, but I can’t figure out why. I mean, I hate waiting. Waiting is lost time, and it forces me to think about things I’d rather not think about. But I’ve never had this visceral reaction before. It’s like my body knows something I don’t and gives no fucks about filling my brain in on the big secret.

10:17 a.m. Two minutes? Two fucking minutes since I last checked? I catch my breath. Why was I holding it? Honestly, there is something wrong with me. There has to be. I’m doing it again. Trembling, breathing hard, feeling panicked when there is nothing to panic about. Where is this dickhead?

First the weirdness at the tournament and now this. Maybe there are curse remnants attached to me that I haven’t checked for properly. I flip through the files on my desk to see if anything jumps out from last week’s records.

10:20 a.m. There’s a knock at my door, and my legs go numb. What the _hell?_

“Come in,” I croak, trying to sound busy and important. I _am_ busy and important, for fuck’s sake.

The door clicks open and a striking middle-aged woman steps inside. She’s familiar.

“Beell Weasley?” That’s not a Bulgarian accent.

“Yes?” Wait a minute. Wait a fucking minute. A rush of blood to my head makes the room spin.

“Ah, very good,” she tuts. “Fleur eez ‘ere to begin ‘er work.”

Fleur. Eez here.

Madame Delacour pulls her daughter into the room by her arm and pushes her in front of my desk. Her eyes are wide as saucers, mirroring my own, I suspect.

I recover quickly, because I have to.

“Right. Yes, of course,” I say, hoping I sound a lot more casual than I feel. “I’m sorry, I just—I didn’t expect . . .”

_Bugger. Words. Say more words._

“You’re late,” I finish lamely.

Her eyes narrow and her lips purse like she’s holding something back, but she only nods.

Madame sighs. “Your office was eempossible to find.”

“Yes,” I mutter, “that’s the idea.” Speaking is much easier if I can pretend it’s only Madame here.

“Fleur,” Madame whispers. _“Dis quelque chose.”_

Fleur extends a rigid hand towards me.

I stand up and take it, and a jolt of pleasure tingles through my spine at the contact. Her handshake is _solid,_ Merlin help me. I give it two firm shakes and drop it like I’ve been stung.

“‘Ello, sir,” she smiles. She’s smiling. Oh, gods.

Sir. That does not sit well.

“Please call me Bill,” I say without thinking.

Madame shakes her head. _“Non._ That weell not do. She eez learning to be a proper employee. You are her employeer, yes?”

“Er, well . . .” I look around and palm the back of my neck. This is too weird. I see her watching me, even if I’m not looking at her right now. “I suppose so.”

 _Man the fuck up, mate_.

“I saw you at the tournament,” I blurt, heat rising in my cheeks. Come on. I don’t blush. I really don’t. “You were brilliant. I’d say you know what you’re doing.”

 _What am I_ saying?

“That is,” I rush on, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were bossing me around by the end of the week.”

_Whoa. Whoa, there, soldier. No need to spell out all your fantasies at the first meeting._

Now I _know_ I’m blushing. And no one can ever find out just how much the idea of this girl bossing me around is the hottest thing I can imagine. I should probably sit back down.

“Take a seat,” I gesture to the chair in the corner. “I’ll, er, get you sorted.”

Madame sniffs her approval (I think). “I weell be back at four o’clock to collect Fleur.”

Fleur rolls her eyes and I hide a weak smile.

This is going to be one hell of a summer.  


**_________**

 

_Fleur_

I am completely mortified, or I would be if I could think clearly for a moment. _Quel désastre._ Leave it to Maman to escort me on my first day and sit in while I met my supervisor. Thank Merlin and Morgana she is leaving tomorrow.

And, yes. My supervisor. Who happens to be _him._ I expected to run into him in a pub or something. Or to discreetly ask around about his family. I did not expect _this._ I have spoken exactly two words to him. How will I manage more? My Veela instincts nearly broke his poor hand. I am not ready for this.

Maman knew, damn her. She winked at me as she was leaving.

He has shown me to a shabby cubicle just a little way down the hall from his and given me some files that are the the very definition of busy work. Match the case number to the file number. Check that these figures add up. _Ugh._ I gave up summer in Provence with Gabrielle for this?

_For him._

He is lovely, though. Not like Roger. I swallow thickly and shake my head. I wish I could obliviate Roger from my memory.

My habits have calmed down a little. Not so much washing and tightening. I even dared to wear Grandmere’s pin again. I thought it would make a good impression on my first day, perhaps bring me some luck.

Actually, sitting here at this mouldy desk is the most relaxed I have been in a long time. Except for the voice that keeps gnawing, daring me to find an excuse to bother him. I swear it even makes me want to unbraid my hair. Just for the possibility of him touching it accidentally. Beyond strange. And what can I do about it, really? He almost seems afraid of me. Does he know or suspect what I am?  

“Fleur?” My head snaps up. He stands in the doorway, his cheeks a sweet shade of pink that obscures the freckles under his eyes. “It’s er, nearly one. You can break for lunch. Or tea. Whatever you fancy.” He bites his lip. I want to bite it for him.

 _“Merci._ I mean, thank you.” He smiles. Emboldened, I add on, “Could I perhaps join you?”

“Yes!” He clears his throat. “Yes, of course. There’s a small cafeteria. A lot of goblin fare but some decent chips. Do you like chips? I like them. Well enough. With vinegar. Do you like vinegar?” He’s babbling. I have to put him out of his misery.

“I like them fine.”

We walk through a damp, narrow corridor that feels more than a dungeon than a thoroughfare to a cafeteria. I wrinkle my nose. He notices.

“Charming, isn’t it? You get used to it.”

“I am sure I will.”

The light is so dim I’m afraid—or hoping—we will crash into one another.

Just when I think he might be playing a trick, the corridor opens up into a small, sunlit solarium dotted with little square tables and rickety chairs

“It is . . . cozy,” I observe, surprised to find I mean it.

He grins. I like it. Circe save me, he has crooked teeth and a dimple on one side. “Worth the stroll, eh? Wait here—” he hesitates. “Er, if you want. I can go get us some chips?”

I nod.

_Mine mine mine._

I cannot take much more of this.  


**_________**  
  


We exchange pleasantries at first, and I am glad for the distraction. We share a little about our families and our school years. I refrain from mentioning my grandmere and he doesn’t ask, but I have an unshakable urge to tell him, so finally, I do.

“It is true, what everyone says about me, you know,” I say, forcing myself to look at him and not the floor.

“Which part?” he says too casually, wiping invisible crumbs from the table.  

“The Veela part.” I pause to see how he reacts. But he just nods once and waits for me to keep talking. I’m not used to that. “My Grandmere is a full Veela. Is that . . . okay?”

He shoots me a confused look. “Okay? Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? I work with goblins all day long, you might’ve noticed.”

I could collapse with relief, but I keep it together.

“So,” he holds one hand up and ticks each of the fingers off one by one, screwing up his face as if he’s working very hard on to solve difficult equation. “That would make you . . . don’t tell me . . . carry the one . . . a quarter Veela?”

“Well done, curse breaker,” I laugh and watch his whole face light up.

“They didn’t hire me for my good looks.” He blushes at his own joke and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. I’ve noticed he does that a lot. I lick my lips without thinking.

“Ah, but you are very pretty,” I tease, shocking myself. He stares at me for a moment. Gods, what have I done?

“So, quarter Veela.” His voice is hoarse; he clears his throat. “What’s that like?”

“Not nearly as exciting as everyone thinks, sorry to say.”

He stands up and pushes his chair in; I follow suit, then we head back towards the corridor.

“No super powers?” He asks while dropping the basket onto a tray as we leave.

“Not really. More like...instincts.”

“Hm,” he seems to mull the thought over, hands in his pockets. “Can you smell fear?”

I laugh again. “Veela. Not werewolf.”

“Immortal?” He asks hopefully.

“You are thinking vampires.”

“Bugger. Ah, but you sing very nicely, yeah?”

“More of a siren talent.”

“Wow. I have to say, I’m disappointed.”

“Me too,” I shrug.

“So what _can_ you do?”

“You really want to know?” The corridor back is dark and deserted, and it seems even longer than when we came through. I’m buying time because I know I am going to say it. I have to say it.

He turns to look at me. “I’m _dying_ to know.”

“In that case,” I begin, my steps faltering a little, “It is nothing so very special. . . . Not like those other things you mentioned . . .”

“Fine, fine. Go on.”

I fix him with the steadiest gaze I can muster and let the words spill out. “I can sense who my mate should be from the moment I set eyes on him.”

His eyes widen. “Oh. So that’s it then?”

I nod.

We have stopped walking. No light but for a torch well up ahead, and I am glad for the shadows.

“And your potential mate . . . would they . . . know this is the case?” His voice is a little higher than before.

My heart is beating so fast I feel slightly faint, which is exactly the wrong impression I want to make. And the truth is, I am unsure if my mate would know. Why could I not have paid more attention to Maman when she went over this?

“Perhaps?”

He leans up against the wall, rests his palms on his thighs, and takes a deep breath. “All right. Okay. So. How do _you_ know, then?”

“I didn’t. I mean, I could sense something, and it was new. It was . . . very strong—“ I realise much too late that I have been using the past tense. He notices.

“You could sense something? It’s happened already, then?”

“Yes.” I take a step closer. “At the tournament.”  


**_________**

 

_Bill_

Holy _fuck_. My heart’s beating out of my chest and I’ve been half hard since her fingers accidently brushed mine in the chips basket. That’s how pathetic I am.

And I don’t even know if she means . . . she probably doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

Does she?

_You could ask._

I could do that. I could. Like, was it me? Simple. But it sounds kind of douchey and presumptuous. We’ve only just met. Still, it would make sense of some things. A lot of things. And she’s looking at me. And she’s not saying anything else.

“I was at the tournament.” Sometimes I really hate how my mouth connects to my brain. _Yeah, you said that already, mate._ But it’s fine. She’s still here, watching me closely. “I saw you.” _Covered that, too._ **_Out_ ** _with it, man_ . “And it felt like lightning.” _You stupid, sappy sod._  

Her breath catches. In a good way? A bad way?

Before I make sense of it, she’s kissing me. Like, really kissing me. Slipping-her-tongue-behind-my-teeth kissing me. Shoving-me-against-the-wall-so-I-will-have-cobblestone-imprints-on-my-arse kissing me. And it’s bloody _fantastic._

Definitely not advisable, considering the circumstances, but fantastic. I kiss her back, as much as she’ll allow, my hands skimming her hips and wrapping around her waist.

Finally, reluctantly, I push back and break the kiss.

“Er, so it’s me, then?” I say whilst catching my breath.

“Yes,” she says simply, and looks suddenly shy.

“Just like that?”

“Yes.” She steals a glance at my now very obvious erection.

“Right, sorry, uh . . .”

She shakes her head. “I am not sorry.”

Okay. That’s sensational. But where does that leave us, here in the corridor of a goblin bank?

As if reading my thoughts (can she do that?), she murmurs into my neck, “Do you know of anywhere we can go?”

It’s unexpected. It’s crazy. But I am one hundred percent on board.

“Yeah,” I take her hand. “Definitely.”

 

 **_________**  
  


She follows me into an alcove and looks at me as if to say, “Is this it?”

“Just a minute,” I whisper. I point my wand at three different rocks in succession and flick sparks onto the floor. The bricks on the wall twist and turn so the space rearranges itself into a larger room, sealing off the entrance.  We’re invisible to anyone who might come by.

She doesn’t say anything so I break the silence like the Gryffindor I am.

“I, er, I used to hide here when there were difficult customers I wanted to avoid.” I point to the desk and the armchair in the corner. “Good for naps too. Or when Griphook was in a foul mood.” She smirks. I keep talking. “There’s not much to it. I don’t know what the original use was, but I think I’m the only one who knows about it.”

“I see."

“Will it . . . suffice?” Damn, this is awkward.

In an instant, my lips are on fire.

More precisely, her lips are on mine. She’s kissing me, hard and fierce again, pulling me close, and my whole _body_ is pulsing. I hold her like I can’t let go. She pushes me, herds me to the armchair, where I crash down, knees shaking, and she straddles my lap.

“Fleur?” I croak, too needy to be embarrassed at how eager I must sound. Still, I have to be certain. “Are you sure about—”

She presses a finger to my lips and gazes into my eyes. “Are you?”

“Yes. _Merlin,_ yes." I catch my breath. "But it’s kind of fast for us to be . . .doing this? Here?”

Pausing for a moment, Fleur rests her hand on my shoulder, then makes slow, deliberate work of the buttons on my shirt. She lays her head on my bare chest and says nothing. It’s so sweet I nearly fall apart.

When she does speak, her voice rings soft and deep.

“I have worried for so long that when this happened, it wouldn’t be my choice. That I wouldn’t be sure.” She circles one finger around my nipple and looks up to meet me. “But I have never been more sure of anything.”

“Me neither,” I say in awed disbelief. “Just . . . show me what you want.”

Our clothes vanish in what I assume is another Veela talent. I would be surprised if I weren’t so ready for this. My mouth falls open at the sight of her, naked above me. But I wait. I won’t move until she does. I won’t breathe. I could stay here just looking at her, waiting, for hours, in perfect agony. 

In one deft movement, she guides me into her,  holding my gaze, faltering a little once I'm inside.

"Are you alright?" I ask.

"Yes," she answers, her eyes bright, and shy smile on her lips.

She rides me slow, closing her eyes, grinding into me and finding a rhythm that nearly wrecks me.

"Fuck . . ." I hiss, and steady my hands on her hips to keep from losing myself.

"Sshhh . . ." she breathes. Then, with one hand on my chest, she reaches her other hand up to the pin in her hair. My pulse quickens as she pulls the pin out and carefully drops it onto the floor. Silvery strands float all around her.

I want to touch them. I need to. But I know instinctively that the choice is hers to make. I have to look away before my resolve weakens, before I come just from the thought of it.  Before I can turn my head, she leans down to kiss me, and lifts my hand to the back of her head.

She grips my hand so tight that it hurts, pulling it down, down her spine, riding me faster and harder until she cries out.

I am spent. I am weak. I am hers.

 

**_________**

  


_Fleur_

Our breathing echoes off the stones as we hold each other, panting. His hand cradles my head, still stroking me, and I bury my nose into his neck, inhale him, trying to pretend I have an idea of what comes next.

“Fleur?” he murmurs next to my ear.

“Hm?”

“Have lunch with me again tomorrow?”

I laugh.

“Yes.”

“And every day this summer?”

“Yes.”

We’re both quiet for a while.

“And after the summer?” The teasing in his voice disappears. I lift my head.

“Something is coming,” he says, eyes distant. “Not now, but soon. I believe Harry, and I think things are going to get a lot worse before they better. It’s going to be difficult. I’ve lived through it once before.”

“And?”

“This won’t be easy.” He looks truly frightened.

“I know.”

“But you’re . . . you’ll stay with me? I’m not sure I’m . . . strong enough alone. I don’t want to go through it without you.”

At that, I straighten up and tuck his hair behind his ear, revelling in the way he closes his eyes and leans into my touch. “Sois fort, my love.” I kiss his forehead. “We are always stronger than we think.”

 

**____________________________**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading my submission for this marvellous fest!
> 
> I loved exploring the idea of consent regarding typically non sexual body parts, (ie. Fleur's hair), and how uninvited touching, or worse, explicit nonconsensual touching, even of something "innocent" is still an invasion, for children as well as adults.
> 
> With the character of Fleur specifically, I wanted to explore how conventionally attractive people experience boundary crossing by others. "It's not my fault she's pretty" is a common refrain among those who believe that they are owed something from someone they are attracted to. 
> 
> And while there is some power in being conventionally attractive in our society, it's not the kind of power that Fleur wants. It doesn't keep her safe, it doesn't win her friends, it doesn't protect those she loves. My heart broke for young Fleur while writing this. 
> 
> As far as a consensual romantic relationship, I wanted Fleur in the driver's seat as much as possible when it came to Bill, submitting only when she wanted to submit, on her terms, and I loved the idea of Bill getting off on submitting to her. I also wanted something other than Fleur's looks to be the thing that caught Bill's notice, Veela mate or not.
> 
> This was real challenge to write, notes and all, and I'm so grateful to every reader who's made it this far! Kudos and comments are always, always appreciated! <3


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